


By Bird and Book

by kashinoha



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe, Footnotes, but still mostly canon-compliant, oh the irony, raven king!Childermass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4147659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norrell calls upon a fairy-summoning spell to revive Lady Pole and ends up getting more than he bargained for. Raven King!Childermass AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Bird and Book

**Author's Note:**

> This idea happened entirely by accident. Tumblr user abigsexyjellyfish and I were discussing Childermass, as we often do, and they mentioned they were introducing a friend to the show. The friend predicted (unfortunately incorrectly) that Childermass would turn out to be the Raven King, and when I read that something just clicked. I never write AUs, but decided to give this one a go. Hope you all enjoy it, and I would love any feedback!

 

**By Bird and Book  
**

All characters © Susanna Clarke

 

_1807_

 

With a last look at the late Emma Wintertowne, gown and skin the same fishbelly white of the freshly dead, Mr Norrell recited the spell. Before he could reconsider the fact that this was all one huge mistake there was a rush of wind, a peculiar smell, and figure in black appeared in the centre of the room.

Norrell blinked rapidly. Well, that was not what he had imagined. In truth, he had pictured more of a, well—

“Are you a fairy?” he asked the figure, in Latin. It came out sounding rather blunt. Norrell swallowed, hands coming up to fidget with a loose button on his coat.

The fairy turned around. He presented a strange mix of gentlemanly and slovenly, clad in a fashionable dress, but with items of clothing that were faded and quite tattered at the ends. Similarly, his black hair was clean, yet long and ragged. There was also an air of slyness about him, turning up the corners of his lips and his black eyes. He smiled, and in English replied, “You did summon me, did you not, Gilbert Norrell?”

Norrell drew himself up to his fullest height. “I did.”

The fairy leaned against the bedpost and crossed his arms. “I have to admit I am impressed,” he said. “Many have attempted to summon me, but this time you seem to have good reason for doing so.”

“This time? I have never attempted to summon you before,” Norrell said, frowning. The fairy only smirked. Norrell gestured to the late Emma Wintertowne lying supine on the bed. “I require you to bring this lady back from the afterworld, fairy,” he told him. The fairy’s gaze sobered and he walked over to the corpse with something akin to sorrow on his dark features.

“How unfortunate,” he murmured, shaking his head.

Norrell was quite perplexed. This figure before him was certainly not what he had expected from a fairy. His readings over the years had led him to believe that fairies were all manic—bubbly, with a kind of unquenchable sociopathic glee, and quite out of their minds.

The fairy touched Miss Wintertowne’s cheek gently. “What will you give me, Gilbert Norrell?” he asked, voice soft.

Norrell bit his lip. “What do you want?”

The fairy looked up and asked, “I believe the question is, what do _you_ want?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why is it so important that I revive this woman?”

“I—ah, that is,” Norrell spluttered. Finally he sighed, shoulders slumping. “I wish to bring magic back to England,” he said.

The fairy crossed his arms again. “Well that is certainly a daunting task,” he replied. A glint appeared in his eye. “One that surely you cannot do alone.”

“I do not understand what you are getting at,” said Norrell.

“Would you consider having me at your side to oversee this revival of magic?” asked the fairy.

Norrell narrowed his eyes, well aware that bargaining with fairies held many tricks and traps. “I have no intention of sharing this credit with you,” he said stiffly. He knew this had been a mistake.

“Nor I the intention of taking it,” replied the fairy. He opened his palms. “We share similar desires, Gilbert Norrell. I merely wish to provide guidance. Not control. You shall even have me as a servant, if you like.”

Norrell deliberated. “How do I know you are telling the truth?” he asked. Moonlight streamed in through the bedroom window, thin and silvery and somehow alive, catching the ends of the fairy’s coat and making them, for a split moment, seem almost feathery.

“A revival of English magic must come from an Englishman, not the Daoine Sidhe1,” the fairy said. “Even if I managed to restore all that was lost, it would not be seen as…” the fairy met Norrell’s eye. “Respectable.”

Norrell, finding that he could not argue with the R-word, conceded. “Very well,” he said. “In return for granting me this woman’s life, you shall be my servant until English magic is restored.” Norrell paused. “Is there some sort of contract we must sign?” He did not fancy spilling blood on Sir Walter’s imported Persian carpets.

The fairy shook his head. “It is done.”

Norrell pointed to the late Emma Wintertowne. “Not that I shew a particular concern, but are there any, ah, drawbacks to this resurrection?” he asked. “Do you require years in return, or a bottle of her blood, or—“

At this the fairy’s lips twisted into a smile and he began to chuckle. It was not an entirely pleasant sound, simply because Norrell got the impression that he was being laughed at. “What kind of books have you read, Gilbert Norrell?” the fairy asked, wiping his eye. “I require nothing of the sort. The young madam shall live a happy, healthy life.”

“Ah,” replied Norrell, feeling a tad foolish.

 

 

 

That night Mr Norrell left Brunswick-square with the delighted exclamations of Sir Walter and Madam Wintertowne still ringing in his ears. Drawlight and Lascelles chattered away the whole carriage ride home, enraptured, yet Norrell could not recall a word of what they spoke of. He wondered when he would see the fairy again.

Norrell had no sooner changed into his sleeping gown and night-cap when he detected that odd, mineral odor once more.

“De Chepe’s labyrinth?” the fairy mused, looking around Norrell’s bedchambers. “And all for some books?” 2

“It is the same spell I employ for my full collection back at Hurtfew Abbey,” Norrell said, sitting at the foot of his bed. “Where have you been?”

“Well I certainly could not have fit in that carriage with your new friends,” the fairy replied, looking amused. “You will have to introduce me to them.”

“And who shall I introduce you as?” inquired Norrell. “I very well cannot call you my fairy servant.”

“Call me John,” said the fairy. “It is a common enough name, is it not?”

“Does this John come with a surname?” Norrell asked.

The fairy stroked the light stubble peppering his jawline. “Let us go with…Childermass.”

“What kind of English name is that?” said Norrell. He made a face upon realizing something unpleasant. “It sounds a bit like Uskglass, which is a name that I particularly dislike.”

The fairy smiled faintly. “Is that so?” He gave a shrug. “Well Childermass is stuck in my head, and I’m afraid nothing can be done about it now.”

“Fine,” Norrell scowled. “I will tell people you are from the north, since you sound like it anyway.” He squinted. “Why is that, by the way?”

“All magic is from the north,” John Childermass replied. Norrell could not disagree with that.

“Before I retire, let us make three things clear,” he told Childermass, folding his hands in his lap. “Firstly, you are now my man of business, and you shall do as I say when I say it. Secondly, you shall refer to me either as Sir or as Mr Norrell. And thirdly, do not mistake my mentioning of John Uskglass as permission to discuss him. I wish to expunge every fiber of that man’s being from my restoration of English magic. Do you understand this, _Childermass?”_

Norrell’s new servant looked as if he were about to start laughing. Norrell found this expression quite disagreeable and was about to remark on it, but then John Childermass removed his hat, bowing low before him with a hand over his heart.

“I understand perfectly, Mr Norrell,” he said, his hair in his face.

 

 

 

And that is how Mr Norrell came to employ what he believed to be the fairy servant John Childermass. Childermass certainly did not act like a fairy; one could easily mistake him for a cynical, lower class Yorkshireman, which Norrell supposed he was grateful for.

There was a faint odor that always accompanied Childermass. It was not pungent nor offensive in any way save for the fact that Norrell could not place it. He suspected it was either ozone, geosmin, or petrichor and debated between the three. Since none of these words had yet been invented, he simply labeled the smell as earthy.

Scent aside, there were other odd little habits. Childermass was always with his hair in his eyes, until one day Norrell became fed up and instructed him to tie it back with a ribbon. Childermass ate regularly, but he never seemed to sleep.3 Curious words would weave themselves into his vocabulary, but Norrell could not tell if they actually held any meaning or if the fairy was simply bring cryptic.4

And Childermass in turn did not remark upon Norrell’s incessant complaining, his fear of mice and spiders and uncleanliness, the way he would launch into dusty, bone-dry pontifications on the principles of magic, nor upon the way he absently hummed parts of Henry Purcell’s _O Solitude_ whenever he found himself bored or waiting.

Childermass attended soirees and social gatherings. He urged Norrell to stop the French blockade. He bought silver basins and quietly advised printmakers to sketch engravings of Norrell in all sorts of concocted positions of English glory.5 He even invited Important People over for tea.

Nobody seemed to question where Mr Norrell’s new servant had come from. In those days, it was rather simple for a man to shew up out of the blue, and disappear into the black.

 

 

 

“Do you even feel the cold?” Norrell asked one day. It was New Year’s Eve, and the bumpy carriage they rode in did little to curb the chill. Norrell hunched in on himself and shivered under several layers of coats and sweaters.

Childermass shrugged, breathed out a white cloud, and the fog on the inside window twisted itself into little swirling runes.

 

 

 

_1808_

 

The door slammed.

This surprised Norrell for several reasons. One, Drawlight and Lascelles sat before him in his London study, which meant that the slammer of the door had to have been Childermass. Two, Childermass simply did not slam doors. The fairy had a rather unsettling habit of just sort of _appearing,_ ominous black coat and all, and a slammed door could only mean that something was terribly wrong.

Sweat broke out of its own accord along Norrell’s brow as Childermass swept into the room with an expression blacker than a chimney filled with coal-dust. “A word Mr Norrell,” he growled.

Norrell swallowed and rose to follow Childermass into the next room, leaving Drawlight and Lascelles gaping behind him. He found his servant pacing the carpet and chewing on a thumbnail.

“Lady Pole,” Childermass hissed, as soon as Norrell had shut the door, “has been _enchanted!”_

“What?” Norrell frowned, placing his hands on his hips. “Is it not your enchantment?”

Childermass shook his head. “There was a door made by the rain, and I walked through it,” he said. “But so did he.”

“Who?”

Childermass scowled. “An old associate,” he muttered. “The most unruly sort of gentleman. He has hair that is thistle-down and an affinity for young maidens that is most perverse.”

Norrell waited for the point to this conversation. When none came, he inquired, “Why is this my problem, then?”

“Do you not see they will blame this on you, Mr Norrell,” said Childermass.

“Me!” cried Norrell. “I did not do this! Cannot you break this thistle-whatever gentleman’s spell?”

“In a heartbeat,” replied Childermass, looking frustrated. “But I cannot be the one to do so. Things have to play out a certain way, you see, and by Englishmen. I take no pleasure in a lady’s suffering, so once she is freed I shall offer her gifts and good fortune for the rest of her years.”

Norrell wrung his hands. “But what shall become of _me?_ I must remain in good standing with Sir Walter and Lord Castlereagh at all costs!” he fretted.

“Indeed, your heart is buried under a dark wood, Mr Norrell,” said Childermass. It was a peculiar thing to say, but three months in his company had prompted Norrell to dismiss most of the fairy’s odd proverbs.

“It is your job to make sure I am not ruined by this, Childermass,” he said. “Otherwise you are useless to me and I am better off with Drawlight and Lascelles.”

Childermass rolled his eyes. “Those two sad excuses for men?”

“True, they have their faults, but none have been better at aiding my cause than they,” said Norrell, testily.

“One cannot help his nature and the other has the morality of a used handkerchief,” Childermass replied. “Which is why I picked them,” he added, under his breath.

“I do not know what you are talking about. Drawlight and Lascelles were around before I even summoned you,” said Norrell. Childermass simply gave a small smirk and folded his arms. Norrell waved his hand.

“Never you mind. I suspect Sir Walter will be calling in physicians from left and right, if Lady Pole returns to anything like the state she was in before,” Norrell continued. “Take care of her, Childermass.”

“Do you mean that in a sympathetic way, or in a way that benefits your reputation, Mr Norrell?”

The sarcasm made a slight whizzing sound as it flew over Norrell’s head.

“And do not forget you must also see to that unruly street magician on Threadneedle Street,” Norrell reminded him, changing the subject. He flapped his hand again in a somewhat dismissive gesture. “I want him out of London, preferably meeting some unfortunate fate or another.”

“Maybe I shall send him on a journey,” mused Childermass, bringing a thumb to his lip. He grinned. “I could give him a potent sherry-wine and stick him under a hedge somewhere.”

 

 

 

“Do you know what I am yet?” whispered Vinculus, grinning, behind a dirty yellow tarp.

“Do you know what I am?” Childermass asked, dealing the cards.

 

 

 

The following June, there was a week when Childermass vanished for three days. It sent Norrell into wig-tearing swivets and turned the moods of anybody in his company sour like curdled milk.

“I grant you a certain autonomy, Childermass,” Norrell scolded when Childermass shewed up on the third evening with what appeared to be rum chocolates poking from his pocket, “but three days without informing me of your whereabouts? Where on earth were you?”

“Vienna,” said Childermass. “You heard of the death of Mr Haydn.” Norrell looked at him blankly.

“No? They had a memorial service at the Schottenkirche, where they performed Mozart’s Requiem. It is one of my favorites.”

Norrell was momentarily stunned. He blinked rapidly and raised his eyebrows. “You went to the funeral of Franz Joseph Haydn?”

“It is only appropriate that I attend the passing of great individuals. Besides,” Childermass spread his palms wide, “I was an admirer of the man’s work.” They stood in his study in Hurtfew Abbey, and a fresh night rain beat against the window panes. Childermass walked over to a nearby table and sat at it, crossing his legs. Norrell was still gaping like a beached fish, so Childermass shrugged and took advantage of the silence. “I suppose this would be a bad time to inform you of a matter,” he said.

At this, Norrell seemed to recover. “What is it?” he asked.

“There emerges another magician in England. The one Vinculus mentioned in his prophesy,” Childermass told him. Norrell immediately put his face in his hands.

“Oh, this is terrible!” he exclaimed between his fingers.

Childermass raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you should be glad to have someone to discuss and practise magic with.”

“Certainly, I would,” said Norrell, glum, “but every self-proclaimed magician as of yet has been nothing but a deceitful fraud. All of them! They all belong in madhouses, like Sir Walter’s wife should be.”

“Trust me, Mr Norrell, this man is anything but,” said Childermass dryly, choosing to ignore the remark on Lady Pole. “He possesses red hair, a long nose, and an arrogance that makes me look like the Pope.6 Which means,” Childermass continued, leaning forward, “he has the gall to actually use his talents. Do you not think restoring magic to England could be easier with two like yourself, rather than with just one?”

“I suppose,” Norrell admitted, the way one admits that he has forgotten an important birthday or the fact that it is Tuesday.

“I shall have him meet you,” said Childermass, arms folded over his chest.

Norrell asked, “How will you go about doing that?”

Childermass pondered. “Perhaps I shall direct him to one of my old residencies, while at the same time sending along one of your acquaintances to meet him there.” He looked outside for a moment, then nodded. “The Rain says that is a good idea.” 7

“Wait. Wait a minute,” interrupted Norrell, holding out a hand. “Not that I necessarily object to this fellow magician, but…” Norrell swallowed and voiced his worst fears, “Does this mean I will have to share my books?”

Childermass only rolled his eyes at him.

 

 

 

Both of Norrell’s homes in Hanover Square and in Hurtfew Abbey, curiously, had begun to attract a great deal of birdfolk. Ravens, to be exact. Young ravens, old ravens, ravens with white flecks and puffy wings, unkindness upon unkindness of them.8 Norrell had asked Childermass if this was meant to be his idea of a joke, but Childermass merely shrugged and said something about birds being drawn to magic. Norrell, who had read _The Language of Birds,_ grumbled that he should be up to his ears in droppings before the year was out.

 

 

 

_1814_

 

“More tea, Mr Norrell?” Norrell nodded and Childermass poured some steaming Earl Gray into a cup on the table. A fresh copy of the _Edinburgh Review_ sat beside it.

Childermass saw Norrell staring at the review. “In the end it is just a book,” he said, shaking his head. “Such publications are sorely overrated. In fact, I knew of a man who fancied one of my books so much that he ate it in a drinking game.” The corners of Childermass’s mouth quirked up.

“He _ate_ it?” Norrell asked, looking rightly horrified that anyone should eat a book. But alas, this matter only succeeded in distracting him for a moment, and he cupped his chin in his palm once more to stare woefully at Strange’s review.

Childermass held out the tea to Norrell and said softly, “You must put this matter behind you.”

Norrell took his cup with a trembling hand. “How can I?” he asked. “Strange has set us on a path that will destroy all that I have worked for!”

“He still wishes to return magic to this country,” Childermass reminded him.

Norrell glanced up at his servant, blue eyes weary. “By means of the Raven King? That will be his destruction. Strange is young and foolish and—“Norrell’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “And I see myself in him.” He sighed. “He will have his heart broken.”

Childermass was silent for a minute, watching steam curl up from the tea kettle in wispy languid trails.

“I am sorry,” he said.

 

 

 

“You cannot do this,” Childermass told John Segundus outside Starecross Hall as flurries of snow began to sprinkle their coats like powdered sugar.

They exchanged some words about political ramifications but in reality talking of a small man’s jealousy, and Segundus, looking crestfallen, asked, “What shall I do, then?”

Childermass held up a finger. “Let me be clear,” he said. “You cannot make this into a _magic_ school. Not yet, anyway. This house shall serve another purpose for the time being.”

John Segundus frowned, partially out of disappointment, but mostly because there was something wrong with Childermass’s coat. In that moment, looking at Childermass, Mr Segundus saw giant black wings sprouting from the man’s back.

The snow around them fell harder.

 

 

 

_1816_

 

One would have feared for Mr Norrell’s blood pressure, to look at him now. “What in god’s name have you been doing, Childermass?” he asked, livid.

From his spot on the bed, Childermass coughed. “Getting shot,” he said.

Norrell stopped his pacing of Childermass’s quarters. “Fairies do not get shot,” he snapped, then looked around to make sure they were indeed alone.

“On the contrary, fairies get shot quite often,” said Childermass. “They simply cannot die from it.” 9

“Then why have you been fooling around like an invalid? It has been two bloody days!”

“What would people have said, had I recovered from a pistol wound to the chest in mere minutes? It was necessary to make a convincing display,” replied Childermass.

Norrell made a sound in his throat. “I am sure the irony of who shot you has not escaped either of us,” he said, bitter.

“It is the wickedness of the gentleman with the thistle-down hair,” Childermass told him. “Had Lady Pole been a regular young woman I could have stopped her.” He grimaced. “But his magic surrounds her like a miasma and her moment to be freed has not yet arrived.”

Norrell paused. “You talk frequently of time,” he began, turning away from the window to face Childermass, “and of cause and effect.”

“Everything is related,” Childermass said.

“Often I get the feeling that there is something you are not telling me,” said Norrell.

“Aye,” agreed Childermass, propping himself up on his pillow with one elbow. He looked down at the white gauze around his chest. It was almost the same tint of white as his skin. “There are things you would not understand, so you needn’t concern yourself with them.”

“Why, because I am not intelligent enough?” Norrell miffed.

“No,” Childermass shook his head, “because you are young. Magic is like our sea in that one often forgets its vastness and cannot see its bottom.”

“Do you not think I know this? Why must everyone mock me in such a manner?” Norrell took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Fine, then,” he said. “Get up, Childermass, and let us quickly restore magic to England so I can finally be done with you.”

 

 

 

“Poor lad,” Childermass said, watching Strange as he paced his tower and ran a hand repeatedly through his hair. “It is about time you speak with my friends the Sky and the Water and the Stones and have them open the Doors, I think.”

Strange whirled around, frowning. “What? I cannot understand you sir, because there is a pineapple in your mouth the size of a small cat,” he informed Childermass. “And black feathers in your eyes.”

“Do not despair, Jonathan Strange,” said Childermass. “You will see her again soon.”

“In fact, I do believe you are a figment of my imagination,” continued Strange. He shooed Childermass away. “Begone, feather man, and take care of that pineapple before you choke to death on it.”

 

 

 

_1817_

 

All of the ravens had vanished from Hurtfew Abbey.

Childermass let himself bleed as he rode under a swelled moon, leaving Hurtfew Abbey for the last time. He had not left because of Lascelles and his enthusiasm with a fruit knife, but because the Doors had been opened. Magic had returned to England once again, marking his time under Norrell at an end.

Now, he had a young woman to free and a beggar to meet. Under his breath, Childermass hummed _O Solitude_ as he rode.

The Wind and the Trees sang with him.

 

 

 

“This sherry-wine tastes oddly familiar,” Vinculus told him, later, underneath the Hawthorn tree with a bottle cradled against his blue-patterned chest. “I recall I had something of the likes 'round a decade ago. Some fellow in a tavern, I think.”

“Indeed,” Childermass said. “You are feeling more like yourself now, I presume?”

Vinculus coughed and nodded. “Some arsewhole with a right head of hair went about and tied me to this tree,” he said, jabbing a thumb above where they sat. “Fairy sort of fellow.”

“A fairy? Why you should consider yourself fortunate to have survived at all,” exclaimed Childermass, an eyebrow raised.

Vinculus cocked his head and pondered for a moment. A triumphant grin suddenly spread over his features. “He was a stupid fellow, for he could not read my book after all,” he said.

“Of course he could not,” replied Childermass, folding his arms. “They are the King’s Letters.”

The grin died from Vinculus’s face. “I never told you that, Mr Childermass,” he said, eyes narrowed and peering at Childermass suspiciously. “I never told anybody that.”

Childermass shrugged. “I am not anybody, Vinculus,” he said. He gave something of a smile. “I thank you for your work towards me these past years, and would like to offer you something in return.” Leaning over, Childermass ran a finger over Vinculus’s bare arms, first one and then the other. Vinculus watched with widening eyes as the blue symbols on his skin shifted and changed into something else.

Childermass rose with a lopsided smile and offered his hand. As he did a sleek, black raven perched on his shoulder. It cawed once.

“I know what you are,” whispered Vinculus, as he reached out his arm.

 

_End._

 

 

* * *

Footnotes:

 

1 The old Celtic term for fairy folk.

2 This is the spell that Norrell used to conceal his library so that no one would be able to locate its whereabouts in the house.

3 On one occasion Childermass, needing to discuss an urgent matter with Norrell but finding the hour late, did so by entering Mr Norrell’s dreams. Needless to say, it only happened once.

4 Ultimately, they were one and the same thing.

5 See _Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell,_ “The Spirit of English Magic urges Mr Norrell to the Aid of Britannia,” p. 118.

6 It is assumed that Childermass is referring to Pope Pius VII, but we cannot be sure. Faerie had Kings and Queens, but a Pope was not unheard of.

7 Here Childermass means the Shadow House. Its former owner, Maria Absalom, believed quite correctly that all abandoned buildings fell into the Raven King’s possession. The acquaintance Childermass speaks of is John Segundus.

8 A flock or group of ravens is called an unkindness. Look it up if you are skeptical.

9 Apparently, fairies proved to be such an annoyance in extended company that there are many documented cases of them being shot at by Englishmen.

 

 

 


End file.
